Glastonbury Fayre

A kinda true  story

The driver of a leather-upholstered
Clapped-out Hillman Hunter
Reeking of Capstan full-strength
And Lifebuoy soap
Dropped me off outside Devizes.
 
Rain set in
I prised open a door to keep dry
Unrolling my doss bag
On a scout hut wooden floor.
 
I crept out early while the village slept
Washing down a Kendal Mint Cake bar
With a pint of gold top
Pirated from some bugger’s door.
 
A postman’s Pashley rested
Neglected against a wall,
I liberated the bike and
Rattled down empty lanes
To the off-map, small-time, festival.
 
The scene looked no big deal.
Freaks knocking up a pyramid.
Blowin’ dope, dropping acid,
Chillin’ out.
 
There would be music, it was claimed,
From big-name bands, ‘yet to be arranged’.
 
I lurked behind a bush
Savouring an alluring tableau.
Women bathing naked in a pond –
You don’t get that in Biggleswade.
 
Men pranced naked too,
Proud love sticks waving tall and free
But open-air scrotums did nothing for me.
 
A red-haired spectral cwtched me,
She was up from Ebbw Vale
Whispering I was god. I was beautiful.
So were mosquitoes and hoverflies too.
 
She cooked organic white bean chilli
Washed down with dandelion tea
She said was laced with LSD.
 
I gulped it down. The acid did not work.
 
Instead I sat for hours
Staring into campfire flames
Marvelling at colours that never existed
And learning an unrepeatable
Unspeakable truth about ‘reality’.
 
My out-of-body soul,
Roaming the astral sphere
Embraced a ‘weekend’ hippy,
Barry from the Isle of Sheppey.
He vanished. Primal screaming
Through a field of borage
Till swallowed by the darkness
Beyond the trees.
 
My festival romance;
A tripping premmie, 
Moonchild, from Rugby.
We wore necklets of daisies she made,
And zipped our sleeping bags
Into a double – sleeping together…
Strictly platonically.
 
A week of incense and innocence.
 
I guess Moonchild outgrew Gandalf and patchouli,
Mushrooms, magick and the Maharaji,
Turning into a grown-up female stranger.
 
A parish councillor?
Lay preacher at a Minster?
Madam Mayor?
A lady prelate?
Probably a magistrate.
 
Nowadays, Glasto is corporate hospitality,
Millionaires brown-nosing billionaires,
Tacky popsters and D-list ‘douchebags extraordinaire’.
 
Hovering above the tent-city
In my brand-new Cessna chopper
My co-pilot pointed out
The ‘Free Love’ pennant waving tall and proud
Above the roof of my shrine-white pristine yurt,
Filling the centre ground of the hi-security
Double ring-fenced VIP compound.
 
As the copter blades spun I attached my real hair
Ponytail extension,
Sucked in my gut to buckle up my brand-new
Shrink-wrapped
Designer distressed jeans.
 
Waiting my moment to headline the show.

© coolhermit 2020
Views: 1171
critique and comments welcome.
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Albermund

You’re a funny bugger, hermit. Enjoyed as usual esp Biggleswade and the open-air scrotums. Cheers albert

Pronto

A very entertaining story. Got any piccies of the pond ladies? 😀

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